is the widow likely to marry again?

I am giving the fruit of my Old Play reading at the Museum to Hone, who
sets forth a Portion weekly in the Table Book. Do you see it? How is
Mitford?--

I'll just hint that the Pitcher, the Chord and the Bowl are a little too
often repeated (_passim_) in your Book, and that on page 17 last line
but 4 _him_ is put for _he_, but the poor widow I take it had small
leisure for grammatical niceties. Don't you see there's _He, myself_,
and _him_; why not both _him_? likewise _imperviously_ is cruelly spelt
_imperiously_. These are trifles, and I honestly like your [book,] and
you for giving it, tho' I really am ashamed of so many presents.

I can think of no news, therefore I will end with mine and Mary's
kindest remembrances to you and yours. C.L.

[It has been customary to date this letter December, 1827, but I think
that must be too late. Lamb would never have waited till then to tell
Barton that he was contributing the Garrick Plays to Hone's _Table
Book_, especially as the last instalment was printed in that month.

Barton's new volume was _A Widow's Tale and Other Poems_, 1827. The
title poem tells how a missionary and his wife were wrecked, and how
after three nights and days of horror she was saved. The woodcut on the
title-page of Barton's book represented the widow supporting her dead or
dying husband in the midst of the storm.

This is the "exquisite simile" on page 59, from "A Grandsire's Tale":--

Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad,
Yet those who knew her better, best could tell
How calmly happy, and how meekly glad
Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell:
Like to the waters of some crystal well,
In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen.
Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell
Glimpses of light more glorious and serene
Than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien.

This was the "downright good sonnet":--

TO A GRANDMOTHER

"Old age is dark and unlovely."--Ossian.

O say not so! A bright old age is thine;
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves;
Because to thee is given, in strength's decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine
At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all He sends with